


If These Walls Could Talk

by LadyNorbert



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female Hawke/Isabela (background) - Freeform, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Letters, Male Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet (background) - Freeform, No Plot/Plotless, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:04:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorbert/pseuds/LadyNorbert
Summary: If these walls could talk, what stories they would tell... A series of vignettes in which Bethany Hawke comes to Skyhold to join the Inquisition and her relationship with Varric goes through some serious changes.





	If These Walls Could Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joufancyhuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/gifts).



> This was so much harder to write than I expected! I sincerely hope you enjoy it, Jo. Many, many thanks to my wonderful and irreplaceable beta reader, AuroraBorealia, whom I couldn't identify until after reveals. ;) Happy Black Emporium, everyone!

If the walls could talk, they probably would have a lot to say.

Varric had been in Skyhold long enough to understand that it was many things. It was a castle, a fortress, and a home of sorts to those who dwelled within its confines. It was a last line of defense, and a first line of heroism.

It was _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ , in the ancient Dalish language that he never could manage to wrangle with his own tongue; the words meant ‘the place where the sky is held back.’ Morrigan had taught them all that much - well, Morrigan had taught the Inquisitor that much, and the Inquisitor had shared the knowledge with the rest of them. Varric had taken it upon himself to confirm the translation in a letter to Daisy, if only because he could, although her very amused response told him that he’d thoroughly bungled the spelling. Apparently he couldn’t write it with any more accuracy than he could speak it.

It was a dusty ruin, it was a pinnacle of stone and glass, it was the beating heart of the Inquisition. It had been built and torn down and built again time after time after time, to the point where even the expert stonemasons couldn’t entirely figure out where one incarnation ended and another began. The stones and the brickwork, the colored windows and the bottomless wells, the sharp-cut stairs and the weathered archways and the soot-encrusted fireplaces all spelled out a history that none who now lived understood how to read.

It was a story, of a sort. Varric was amused. He was living in a story, and it had many of the elements that a good story should - valiant knights and fierce dragons, brave ladies and virtuous heroes, and a villain so great and so evil that most of Thedas was united in purpose to stop him. The story all but dripped from the walls like dew on a spring morning, oozing down into their lives, curling around his writing hand and infusing itself into everything he wrote.

Everything, including his letters.

 

 _It never rains here,_ he wrote to Bethany. _Or if it does, it only does at night when I’m either asleep or too wrapped up in a story to notice. The days are always bright and decently warm, considering that we’re parked in the middle of the Frostbacks and there’s snow on all sides. Once you cross that bridge and head down into the valley, you really notice the difference._

His letters to her were longer than the ones he wrote to anyone else, in part because he knew she had the _time_ to read them. Aveline was working during her every conscious moment (and quite possibly while she was asleep too, knowing her); Merrill was too easily distracted; Hawke was unreachable by letter just now; and while Sebastian probably would have read Varric’s letters, he also would have _answered_ them, and Varric ignored mail from Sebastian on principle so he certainly wasn’t about to encourage it. But Bethany, holed up in the royal guest wing of Sebastian’s family castle on Hawke’s orders, genuinely relished the good, long, gossipy letters he was fond of writing, and her responses were as regular as the sun for which he’d named her.

 _I wouldn’t mind seeing it for myself_ , she wrote back. _You make it sound so beautiful and mysterious. Maybe I’m just jealous - Starkhaven Palace is very grand, but not particularly outdoorsy. Some days I feel completely stifled, like there’s not enough fresh air. When the sun shines, the shadows are very long, and when it rains, I’m like a flower wilting from being overwatered. I manage a trip to the market now and then, but otherwise I’m mostly seeing Starkhaven through latticed window panes. Skyhold sounds positively luxurious._

 _I can’t tell if you’re angling for an invitation or openly declaring your intention to invade,_ he teased in his next letter. _I think I’m okay with either. It’s been awfully quiet for the last ten minutes or so, not that I expect this to continue for long. But in any case, I don’t mind admitting that we could use some Sunshine._

 _But your commentary on the weather tells me that there’s always sunshine in Skyhold_ , she returned pertly. He could almost see her playful smirk in the familiar curls and flourishes of her handwriting. _Does it really need more?_

_Ah, but there’s a difference between sunshine and Sunshine. I won’t claim to speak for everyone else here, but it’s been a little too long since I’ve had one of those around me. I probably shouldn’t suggest it - I doubt Hawke will appreciate it - but the Inquisition can always use more hands. If you’re getting bored on that side of the Waking Sea, and you can persuade Choirboy to let you out of his sight long enough to get on a ship, we’d be glad to have you. Some of us more than others, of course._

 

* * *

 

If the walls could talk, they might rat Varric out about his softer side, just a little.

Despite having all but spelled it out to her that he hoped she would come, Varric still found that he was a little surprised when she turned up on Skyhold’s doorstep.

It was Dorian who brought the news to his attention. “Remarkable turn of events, Varric,” he said in languid tones, strolling into the hall and letting his shadow fall across the manuscript pages strewn over the table. “There is a rather exquisitely lovely young woman out in the lower bailey.”

“I’m surprised you noticed,” Varric retorted.

“I can appreciate beauty with the eye of a connoisseur,” came the amused reply. “Just as one may examine a banquet with admiration for the skills of the chef who prepared it without feeling a desire to partake, so may one observe a work of nature’s art. But as handsome as the young lady in question happens to be, that isn’t the detail which caught my attention.”

“I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to ask for further particulars?” Varric set aside his quill. “Okay, I’m in the mood to humor you. Go ahead.”

“It’s I who am humoring you, actually.” Dorian smirked. “The most interesting thing about this attractive human woman is that she’s asking for _you_. That’s not something which normally happens, in my experience.”

“Asking for me?” Varric repeated. “An autograph seeker, maybe?”

“I might have thought so, but as Bull observed, she does bear quite the striking resemblance to Hawke.”

“To... well, shit.”

There was a brief pause, and then Dorian cleared his throat. “I must say, I’ve never seen an expression on your face quite like the one you’re wearing now. But don’t keep the lady waiting, Varric. Go and welcome your guest. I’m sure we’ll all be delighted to meet her.”

Only a little nonplussed, Varric made his way down to the lower bailey, where - sure enough - sunshine itself stood watching the proceedings. He kept his pace a bit slow as he approached so he could take in the sight of her, as it had been well over a year since they’d last met. Bethany was on the far side of thirty years old, now, although it wasn’t obvious to the casual observer. She’d always been somewhat tiny, really no bigger than Merrill (who was an elf and by definition smaller than most humans), and her years in the Gallows followed by her time in Starkhaven Palace had conspired to keep her pale; she was clearly relishing the breeze that rippled her traveling cloak, and the sunlight which played upon her features. The warmth and fresh air of Skyhold would probably do her as much good as she would do for the rest of its occupants.

Varric’s tastes didn’t normally run to humans, but he’d never denied the fact that he considered Bethany to be remarkably beautiful. She could still make a burlap sack look good if she were forced to wear one. “So,” he said, when he was finally close enough to be heard without shouting, “Choirboy let you out of Starkhaven? Do you have a curfew?”

She turned, and laughed, and moved to embrace him before he could even contemplate whether or not she might. “No curfew,” she promised, releasing him and studying his face with some anxiety. “I’m here for as long as I’m needed. You’ve been injured?”

“Oh, a nick here, a punch there.” He shrugged. “The healers do their best to keep me irresistible. You really want to join the Inquisition?”

“I want to help,” she explained. “This seems like the best way to do it. Besides, this happens to be where you are, and if that’s a good enough reason to go to the Hanged Man, I’d say it’s a good enough reason to be here.”

“Sunshine, you wound me,” he protested. “How can you say anything against the Hanged Man? It’s the greatest shithole in Thedas!”

“I can’t argue with that,” she replied wryly, smiling. “Anyway, I thought it might also spare your ambassador’s messengers a bit of trouble if I were here, since you won’t need to send me letters anymore. Not that I haven’t enjoyed them - I’ve enjoyed them very much. But it’ll be nice to see everything firsthand.” So saying, she looked around. “Maker, you were not exaggerating when you described the castle.”

“We do all right here. Come on - I’ll give you the tour,” he proposed, “and then we’ll talk to Ruffles about finding you a place to sleep. Are you hungry? We can start in the tavern, if you’re peckish.”

“I could eat,” she agreed.

 

* * *

 

If the walls could talk, they might have a thing or two to say about Varric’s pacing habits.

He preferred a sedentary lifestyle; anyone who knew him well knew that. That didn’t mean he _couldn’t_ walk, run, or jog as the spirit and circumstances moved him, of course, and he’d proven that in the field time and again. When he was indoors, though, most of his walking consisted of two things - wandering in search of something (be it a drink, a quill, or an individual), or pacing his floor.

It wasn’t that he ever lacked for ideas. Honestly, sometimes the problem was that he had too many ideas. His mind was never a quiet place; maybe that was part of why he talked so much, he was trying to drown out the noise. Currently, he was at work on the Orlesian thriller because Vivienne was so eager to see it completed, and he had come to a complete mental block. The fact that he didn’t especially _like_ Orlais wasn’t really helping. Truth be told, he’d partly come up with the idea for the story in response to their visit to the Winter Palace. He wanted to mock Orlesian society mercilessly, but at the same time in a manner that was so subtle they probably wouldn’t realize they were being mocked.

(It wasn’t going to be difficult. Orlesians were not capable of subtlety, not as he understood the concept anyway. Sure, if you asked them they’d say it took a subtle hand to play the Game well, but why would Varric ever want to play the Game when he could be playing Wicked Grace?)

The characters, on the other hand, were mocking him. He had a great villainess, courtesy of the Iron Lady, but the supporting cast left something to be desired. He had considered making a character based on Cassandra, and had vetoed the idea on the grounds that the odds were pretty much 50-50 on whether she would be flattered or furious; it was too close to call. There definitely needed to be someone in there based on the Iron Bull, if only so he could properly incorporate that line about ‘pulling your girlfriend’s trigger from the back row,’ but he hadn’t quite figured out where to put him yet. Blackwall was still in the doghouse, although that might be reason enough to work him into the story; Leliana was too damn terrifying to consider it; and Cullen would probably have some kind of Fereldan conniption. It wasn’t that he thought Curly would object to being turned into a character, but rather that he would object to being turned into an _Orlesian_ character.

He was mid-stride on roughly his nineteenth circuit around his room when there was a knock on his door. Alternately grateful for and annoyed by the interruption, he went and pulled it open. “Oh, Sunshine, it’s you,” he said, the annoyance dissolving at once. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, no, nothing specific,” she assured him. “Just thought I would come and see how my favorite writer is doing. May I come in?”

“Of course. My palatial suite in Skyhold is your palatial suite in Skyhold. Well, not literally,” he amended. “It’s just something I said to Hawke once about my rooms at the Hanged Man. This is actually a little smaller - not as palatial. Smells better, though. But make yourself at home.”

She shut the door behind her and crossed the room to do just that, settling into a chair and tucking her legs underneath her. “I must confess I have somewhat of an ulterior motive in coming up here,” she said. “Madame de Fer said you were working on an Orlesian serial. Is that true?”

“For a given value of working.” He moved back to the table and shuffled the papers a bit. “I had the idea to do a thriller set in Orlais, with a character based on her as the villain. She seemed to love the idea, so I moved forward with it, and her character’s kind of the showpiece of the story. I keep hitting brick walls with the rest of the cast, though. I can’t pin down the hero.”

“Hmm. Is it something I can help you with?” she asked. “I would be happy to try.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he objected mildly. “It’ll come to me eventually, it always does. It’s just giving me fits right now.”

“I know how you get with your stories,” she said fondly. “And yes, I have no doubt it will come to you eventually, but maybe a second pair of eyes would help.”

“Well... I guess it can’t hurt.” He spread the papers across the table again and pointed. “This guy here has bits of a couple people in him, but he’s not really forming a cohesive character. And then there’s this lady who wants to be Ruffles but isn’t quite... Ruffly enough, for lack of a better way to say it.”

She giggled at that, then turned her attention to the papers, making the occasional noise of thought. “Oh, I like where this is going. I think you have a great start, I really do. But I would be happy to help pin down things like fashion and ladies’ mannerisms, if you like.” She laughed again.

“That would help a lot, actually,” Varric admitted. “I can read Orlesian etiquette guides and fashion periodicals until the words are pouring out of my ears, but I can’t claim they make any kind of damned sense to me. And I’ve got a basic plot, but until these characters sort themselves out it’s not going to go anywhere. The characters drive the action, you know, I just do what they tell me to do - but they’re not telling me anything yet because they haven’t figured out who they are.”

“That makes sense. Well, let’s see if we can get them talking. I’m sure in no time they’ll be like old friends.”

That put a smile on his face. “The best characters always are.”

 

* * *

 

If these walls could talk, they’d probably say more than he liked about the subject of Varric’s heart.

Valammar had been... trying. Yes, _trying_ was a good word. It had been embarrassing (the Inquisitor now knew way more about his romantic history than he had ever told anyone, even Hawke) and uncomfortable (why had Bianca chosen these ancient dwarven halls to start reminiscing about annoying his dead brother?) and very, very painful. Bianca hadn’t meant to leak the thaig’s location to Corypheus himself - she had no way of knowing, of course, and he knew she felt bad about it. He also knew that he was more than a little annoyed, but not at her so much as at himself.

He knew what she was like, better than maybe anybody. He should have known that she wouldn’t have let the matter lie, that she would start approaching it like a machine or a puzzle and see where she could work out the kinks and make it run smoothly. And he should have had the sense to see that when she couldn’t do that, because nobody could have done that, then she would try to find someone to help her. She figured out that red lyrium was Blighted, but of course she wouldn’t have stopped there. And in her defense, a mage Warden did seem like the logical answer to such a question, even if it was a question that should never have been asked.

So he couldn’t be mad at her, not really. Mad at himself - well, he was pretty good at that.

The letter, however, was unexpected.

 _I think_ , she wrote, _that the recent events have made a few things clear.  You hadn’t written to me in months; you didn’t want to visit the new workshop when I invited you; and I shouldn’t have thrown that remark in your face about telling stories about what I should have done. That was unfair and I’m sorry._

_I’m also sorry I threatened the Inquisitor. That was a knee-jerk reaction. I’d lay a wager that you don’t even know about that yet, since he’s probably as stubbornly noble as you are and wouldn’t have told you. Ask him about it, if you’re inclined._

_The truth is we’ve grown apart. I didn’t want to admit it, and maybe you don’t either, but it’s there. Valammar proved it, even though the signs have been coming for a long time. You’re tired of risking your life just to be in the same part of Thedas with me. I can’t blame you. If I look at my life, maybe I’m not deliriously happy, but I’m not unhappy either. And I don’t want you to be unhappy, waiting around to see if fate has something planned for us. You deserve better than that._

_Take care of my namesake, and she’ll take care of you. And think of me, once in a while._

 

He set down the paper in almost blank-faced astonishment.

Part of him had always known it would come to an end, sooner or later. Mostly he had just assumed that it would end with her parents’ assassins finally catching him off guard, or something like that. The broken elopement had taken him a long time to forgive, even making allowances as he so often did for her capricious nature. And there was a part of him that thought maybe he, one day, would end things in a letter like this. Never in his weirdest fantasies did he think she would be the one to release him.

But she did. She had. The question was, what was he going to do with this?

He folded the letter up into the smallest square he could, and jammed it deep into his trouser pocket. Much as it wasn’t something he normally did, Varric decided he needed some air, and went outside to find it. Maybe a stroll on the battlements would clear his head.

He crossed the hall and entered the courtyard, which tended to be a little too full of people for his purposes; he could make out the figures of Curly and Sparkler having their daily chess battle in the gazebo, and of Morrigan and her little boy sitting near the well and reading. Doing his best not to excite any particular interest, he made his way excessively casually to the nearby stone staircase, and climbed slowly to the ramparts. This particular staircase was close to the mage tower, and he leaned against the parapet and let the cold north wind hit him in the face.

A few minutes later, a figure emerged from the tower. It was Bethany, a few books in hand, and she did a double take at the sight of him, immediately altering her steps to cross over to him.

“I thought that was you,” she said in greeting. “It’s nice to see you out enjoying the sun.”

“I don’t think _enjoying_ is quite the right word,” he replied lightly, “but I’m not hating it, anyway. Taking advantage of the tower library, I see; Fiona’s rebels brought more books than I would have expected. Find anything good?”

“Nothing as good as _Hard in Hightown_ , sadly, but a few volumes I’m looking forward to paging through in my free time nevertheless.” She smiled, then took note of the look on his face. “Something wrong?”

“Yes. And no. It’s... complicated.” He studied the distant outline of one particular peak in the Frostbacks, as though trying to commit it to memory for some reason. “Let me be as vague as I can be, because the details aren’t something I like discussing.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “To use the phrasing I used for it on one other occasion, I used to take solace in the companionship of a certain lady friend. Things went south, but there was still something there. As of today’s mail, she seems to have cut ties permanently. I think I’m mostly just stunned.”

“Oh,” came the somewhat astonished reply, but her gaze held no judgment, only surprise. “I’m... very sorry to hear that, Varric. Are you... all right?”

“Yeah. Or I will be.” He shrugged. “It was bound to happen sooner or later - I mean, she’s married to someone else, that usually is a pretty clear signal that things are over, right?” There was a sound, almost like a humorless chuckle, and it took a few seconds before he realized that it was coming from his own throat. “We don’t see each other often anyway, and we’d all but stopped writing, so... this isn’t as big of a surprise as it probably sounds.”

“Still though. Saying goodbye to the past is never easy.” She shifted the books in her arms in order to have a free hand, which reached out to touch his shoulder. “I’m here if you need me - if you want to talk to someone or just want to play Wicked Grace. You know I’ll always help if I can.”

“I know.” Not wanting her to think him ungrateful, he reached up to cover her fingertips with one gloved hand. “Thanks, Sunshine. Right now, if you could just keep this whole conversation to yourself, that’d be enough of a help. Anyway, I just came up here to get some fresh air and maybe clear my head a little, before anybody sees me and tries to cheer me up.” He made the mirthless chuckle noise again. “I should say, before anybody _else_ sees me and tries to cheer me up. Sunshine suits me just fine.”

He’d said that to Hawke, once. Why he happened to remember doing so, he had no idea, but the phrase leaped back into his mind and he suddenly recalled that conversation, when he and his future best friend were first still getting acquainted. Had he given Bethany the nickname at that point, or was it later? That was a detail he couldn’t remember.

She smiled again at that. “Well, your secret is safe with me,” she replied. “And my offer of help still stands. Speaking of help, one of these books here is about Orlais - I was hoping it might help us work on your thriller.”

Still leaning against the parapet, Varric turned his head to study her for a moment. “Maybe work is what I need,” he agreed. “All right, Sunshine. Let’s go commandeer a couple tables in the great hall and start taking notes. I’m going to make sense out of this story yet.”

 

* * *

 

If these walls could talk, Varric would get away with a lot less skulking.

It wasn’t like he _needed_ to skulk, of course. He was ‘Lord Varric’ (very much against his own inclination, but the Inquisition runners felt the need to be formal) and a member of the Inquisitor’s own inner circle, and he was allowed to pretty much come and go as he pleased. Cassandra might think otherwise, of course, but that just gave him an excuse for the skulking sometimes. Mostly he skulked in order to keep in practice; he was a rogue, after all.

He’d been a champion skulker since he was quite young. Bartrand had been eight years older than Varric, who was still in diapers when their father had died; in his mid-teens, Bartrand had taken Andvar’s seat in the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild. It was a tremendously uncomfortable chair that was now technically Varric’s, although he did his best to keep his ass out of it as much as possible. But in his much-younger days, he had been too curious about the whole thing to keep out of the way as Bartrand wanted - hence the skulking. He’d learned a lot, maybe too much really. Bartrand had been more tolerant of the skulking when Varric’s age was still in the single digits; Varric supposed he’d been cuter back then. The older he got, the more it agitated Bartrand, especially once he reached his twenties and started bringing Bianca with him.

(That would be the dwarf Bianca, not the crossbow. She still occasionally liked to reminisce about it, as he’d discovered when they went to Valammar with the Inquisitor. Well, she’d asked him to think of her once in a while, so he did. Fondly, too, but not with the same reckless passion of old.)

Wanting to do something to amuse himself, therefore, Varric decided to try skulking up to the rookery. Sneaking up on the spymaster was, of course, virtually impossible; he had no illusions about the possibility of actually succeeding. He just wanted to see how far he would get before someone knew he was there, be it a scout or a bird or Leliana herself.

Much to his surprise, he got very nearly to the top of the stairs and still hadn’t been spotted. Was Leliana out? In Josephine’s office, maybe? Wait, no, he could hear voices, and one of them was definitely hers. Leliana’s Orlesian lilt tended to wash over the ears like some kind of musical river, unlike a lot of others with the same accent. Most Orlesians were just begging to be told to shut up, but the Nightingale was well named.

It was the other voice that he knew better, however. He wasn’t entirely sure why Bethany would be visiting Leliana. He knew they’d been acquainted before the Hawkes fled to Kirkwall, of course; Leliana had been a lay sister in the Lothering Chantry, and she remembered Bethany well. So it wasn’t entirely strange that they’d be having a visit, but he wondered what the reason for it was.

“No, you’re not wrong,” he heard Leliana saying. “It’s still strange to me, but the more I consider it, and the more I discuss it with the Inquisitor, the more it seems like something that I could do.”

Varric turned the words over for a minute; it sounded like she was talking about the prospect of becoming Divine. Everyone in the Inquisition knew that Leliana and Cassandra were the prime choices to take the Sunburst Throne, and the mental image of Divine Cassandra both amused and terrified him. So the Inquisitor was leaning toward Divine Leliana, if he wasn’t misunderstanding her. Well, it made a lot of sense, really.

“The world could benefit from the Chantry you envision, Sister Leliana,” Bethany replied. “And your opinions on mage rights... I would be lying if I said the thought didn’t appeal to me.” She chuckled a little.

Leliana chuckled as well. “I can see why. Mages and Templars alike have been through too much at the hands of the Chantry over the years, and I would like to see that changed. Everyone is a child of the Maker, no? Everyone should be welcomed, because everyone is loved.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Everything comes from the Maker - both the magical and the mundane - and everything has a purpose. It’s been one of the guiding principles of my life. I wish more people saw that... maybe you can help them see.”

“That is my hope as well. There have been dangerous mages, of course, but there are dangerous people who are not mages too. And I believe that the good mages who wish only to do the Maker’s will far outnumber the ones who present a danger.” Leliana sighed. “I should have started on this path a long time ago.”

“But who’s to say you didn’t?” Bethany replied. “I’ve said it more than once - the Maker is wiser than we can be in a lifetime. I could wish I had never gone to the Circle, but if I hadn’t, I might never have understood how important freedom is and how much mages have had taken from them. You walked the path you did because that was the path you needed to follow to reach this point. There were lessons you needed to learn that you could only have learned on that path.”

“You sound like the Hero of Ferelden.” The spymaster chuckled. “That’s exactly the sort of thing she would say too.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Varric could hear something like a giggle in Bethany’s voice.

“I remember the girl you used to be, you know,” said Leliana. “Back in Lothering. How you used to come and sit in the Chantry, sometimes for hours at a time. In hindsight, I’m surprised you were there so much, since that’s where the Templars were.”

“What’s the expression? The closer you are to danger, the farther you are from harm?” Sunshine chuckled, but then she turned serious. “Besides, I thought maybe the Maker would listen to me more closely if I talked to Him in His house. I used to beg for Him to take the magic away from me. My father was a good man and an excellent teacher, and he knew how to hide his magic... but teaching a child to do that? That can’t have been easy. And Mother was always worried - that they’d take me away, that the rest of the family would be punished for hiding me. I thought if I could just convince the Maker that I shouldn’t have this magic, it would be better for everyone.”

“It must have frustrated you when He didn’t take it away.”

“It did. I used to think He wasn’t listening. I tried Andraste too, but with no more success. But I think, now, that they were listening. I think that the Maker answers every prayer - it’s just that sometimes the answer is _no_. And there’s a good reason for every no, just like there’s a reason for every yes.” Varric heard the scrape of a chair as one of the women either stood up or sat down. “Things happened as they did for a reason. For you, for me, for all of us.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. But don’t ask me to explain how recent events fit into the puzzle,” Leliana added.

“Well, the Maker may have allowed things to happen because it’s brought so many people together. The Inquisition has forged alliances, ended the civil war in Orlais, saved lives. And it would probably still exist even without Corypheus, but maybe it wouldn’t be the same. Maybe being able to unite ourselves against a single common enemy has been exactly what this world needed right now.” Bethany gave a soft laugh. “At least, I hope it’s something like that. It makes me feel less guilty about helping to get him out of his prison.”

“I forgot you were there for that,” Leliana admitted. “Varric’s book said the Carta assassins were targeting both of the surviving Hawke children.”

“Yes, they came after me in the Circle. Cullen might remember a little about it, I seem to recall him being present for part of the mess.” A pattering sound followed these words, like Bethany was drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “I know he’s the one who persuaded the Knight-Commander that I should be allowed to go along to the encampment in the Vimmarks. I’m sure Varric and my sister would rather I have stayed behind,” she added, “once we saw what kind of danger we were in there. But if I’d stayed behind, the Carta might have come after me again, so we all agreed it was better for us to be together.”

“I’ve read that part of _Tale of the Champion_ many times,” said Leliana. “It sounds like it was an exciting adventure, if terrifying.”

“It was a lot of things. Our mother had been killed not very long before it all happened, which colored a lot of our perspective,” Bethany noted. “And we learned so much about Father’s past while we were there. At the time it was mostly just scary and sad, but it had some good things about it too.” She giggled, suddenly. “Isabela was with us, you know, and after we got back I was able to stay at the house with my sister for a few hours to rest and sort of recover. Sis began talking about the fight we’d had with that strange Malvernis creature. ‘Bethany, you’ll smack me for this,’ she said, ‘but we were in the midst of that fight. I looked across the yard and saw you and Varric back-to-back, and Isabela was running across the platform to join me, and it just sort of flashed through my mind: _worst double date ever._ ’ I couldn’t help laughing - we were both so tired and achy and emotionally drained that it was about the best laugh I’d ever had.”

Leliana laughed too. “The important thing was, you survived to be able to share the joke,” she said a few minutes later. “Ah, I should return to my duties. But thank you for coming to see me, Bethany. Varric’s name for you is well given. My rookery is lighter for your visit. Do be careful on the stairs, though, they’re a bit steep.”

Varric wasn’t sure if that was directed more at Bethany or at himself, but he decided to take the hint and crept back down to the library. _Well, Hawke, you weren’t exactly wrong_ , he thought, amused.

 

* * *

 

If these walls could talk, there might be some mutterings about Varric and how well he did - and did not - deal with fear.

The assault in the Arbor Wilds had not exactly gone according to plan. Everyone assumed this was the last big push, that Corypheus would be confronted by the full might of the Inquisition and be struck down for good and all. To that end, every ally who could be spared was brought in to help from the far corners of Thedas. Empress Celene sent the bulk of her army; the Blades of Hessarian had marched over the mountains from the Storm Coast; King Alistair had dispatched a contingent of Fereldan soldiers; even Choirboy had bolstered their ranks all the way from across the Waking Sea. The only ones kept away were the Grey Wardens, who were too susceptible to the Elder One’s machinations.

To some extent, things _had_ worked out as they’d hoped. The red Templars were being cut down left and right; Curly was in his element, leading his own troops into the fray and barely sleeping for days. There was probably something cathartic about it for him, Varric thought, and he made a few notes about a decorated Fereldan captain traveling through Orlais in service to his lord, and being thoroughly exasperated by the antics of the locals. He wasn’t sure if such a character would fit into the story, but it was worth remembering.

They had fought their way to an ancient temple in the heart of the Wilds, a sanctuary of Mythal, the queen of the old elven gods. Solas, to no one’s surprise, had plenty to say on the subject, but Varric didn’t pay much attention; Morrigan’s knowledge of things was more unexpected, and Solas was annoyed. They had faced off with Samson, and won. And they had denied Corypheus the prize he had sought, some ancient puddle called the Well of Sorrows, which the Inquisitor had let Morrigan more or less have. This had barely been finished when their enemy had appeared, forcing them all to run into a magic mirror which somehow brought them back to Skyhold. None of this shit made sense to Varric, although he did notice that the mirror in question looked suspiciously like the one with which Merrill had been obsessed for a long time.

The bulk of the forces were still in the Wilds, cleaning up the mess they’d left there and trying to figure out what Corypheus might still be doing. The three advisors, however, had made a hasty return to the castle, and they brought with them the worst of the injured; most of the mages who had gone to the Wilds were focused on combat, so it was judged better that the wounded should be patched up as best they could and then brought back to Skyhold for proper treatment.

That was all well and good, but it didn’t prepare Varric for a runner to come and tell him that Bethany was asking for him. “She’s here?” he asked, wondering if she’d been among the healers. That was where he had left her, after all, safe in the base camp to help with that sort of thing.

“Yes, messere. She’ll be all right, the surgeon says, but she’d like to see you.”

“She’ll be... what?”

“Mistress Hawke was injured in the Wilds, ser. I’m sorry, I thought you had been informed.”

“Uh, no. No, I very much was not. How?” He was already out of his chair and heading for the door.

“I don’t know the specifics, ser. The surgeon can answer your questions much better than I can.”

“Thank you.” It was all he had time to say - he was hurtling down the stone steps at a pace that was probably a little scary to watch. Later, he’d take time to be amazed that he didn’t fall and crack his head open. For now, his only thought was that Bethany had been hurt, and anybody who got in his way was going to suffer for it.

 _How did they move the hospital ward so far away?_ he wondered. _This yard’s not that big. Did my legs get shorter? Or did time just slow down? What could have happened to her? She has to be at least a little okay, she was able to tell someone to come and get me, but what happened?_

The hospital ward was smallish, and really rather dim. It was situated across the yard, not far from Cassandra’s favorite practice dummy, and the windows were usually shuttered; probably this was for the benefit of patients struggling with headaches or something, but whatever, Sunshine was inside and that was light enough. She looked up from her cot as he opened the door. “Oh - there you are,” she said, extending a hand. “Are you all right?”

“Me?! You’re the one lying here, Sunshine, what happened?” He moved to take the hand she offered, studying her face anxiously. “Your sister will kill me if you don’t go home in one piece, and I won’t lift a hand to stop her.”

“None of that.” She smiled gently. “I’ll be fine. I got knocked out by a Venatori spell.”

“You were in the base camp, how could that happen?”

“After Corypheus saw you all do whatever it was you did, he left,” she explained. “A runner came from Cullen, asking for some healers to come and assist with injured, so I went. I came to help the Inquisition, after all, and that’s what I wanted to do. We were ambushed on the way.”

“Andraste’s ass. How bad?” If they’d brought Bethany in the first wave of injured, she must have been hit pretty hard.

“Well, how can I put this? Do you remember what you told me about fighting the high dragon in the Bone Pit, and how three of its babies tried to drag you by the coattails into the path of that one drake’s flaming breath?”

“I may have exaggerated a little, but go on.”

“It was like that, only much colder.” She shook her head slightly. “From what they told me when I woke up, it was a freezing spell. Instead of Sunshine, they turned me into some kind of snow maiden.”

Varric felt like his own heart turned to ice at that revelation. One of the Iron Bull’s favorite fight techniques was to have Dorian or Vivienne cast that same spell on a target and then, while they were thus frozen, dash them to pieces with his massive weapon. A frozen body could be shattered like glass, and he didn’t know who to properly thank for the fact that Bethany had not suffered that fate. “But you’re going to be all right, won’t you?”

“As far as I know. They want me to rest for a few days, take potions, try not to move.” She winced, shifting in the cot. “Having the marrow of your bones magically numbed isn’t exactly healthy. But I’ll live.”

“That’s the important part. Listen,” he said, “let me go talk to the people in charge, see if I can convince them to have you moved to your room. You shouldn’t be stuck in here where you’ll wilt in the dark, and I’m sure they need the space anyway.”

“Well, you know what Sis always says. If I need anyone talked into anything, you’re the guy to do the talking.” She smiled wanly. “Thank you, Varric, I feel better already.”

“You just lie quietly, Sunshine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

Two hours later, having coaxed, cajoled, and argued with the Inquisitor and his council, Varric watched victoriously as Bethany was very carefully relocated to her own assigned quarters. “The bed is bigger and more comfortable, you’ll have more light, and you’re barely a stone’s throw from my room if you need me for anything,” he explained. “And I can keep you company without disturbing anyone else.”

“I’m sure you have other things that need your attention,” she protested. “You can’t be here all the time.”

“No, but I can be here more often than I’m not. Which is the plan,” he replied. “I can pay my bills and work on my stories just as well in here as I can in the great hall, and with less scrutiny too. Don’t worry about me, just let me look after you.” If she was right in front of him most hours of the day, it would allay the terror which had seized him the instant he knew she’d been injured.

“Varric, I’m a big strong mage,” she said. “I lace my own boots and everything.” The joke was heartening, but the soft exhaustion of her voice left him with a fresh wave of anxiety. Was she weaker than she wanted him to see? Had it been just her bones which had frozen, or was there damage deeper inside that the healers couldn’t find?

He didn't dare voice any of these thoughts. Instead, he said, “Humor me, please. Besides, I’ll bet it’s been a long time since you had anybody fussing over you, and you’ve more than earned it. So let me fuss. I wouldn’t normally offer, but you know me - Hawke girls are the exception to just about every rule.”

“Well... I guess if our positions were reversed, I’d be doing the same thing,” she admitted. “All right.”

“There’s my Sunshine. So... how about an exclusive? A reading of _Hard in Hightown_ by the author himself?” He grinned. “You’ll love the voices I do for each character.”

Bethany chuckled. “You know, that sounds like just the thing.”

“I’ll go get my personal copy and tell somebody to have my supper delivered up here when they bring yours.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

 

* * *

 

If these walls could talk, they’d probably express a little surprise at how quickly things happened.

About a fortnight after Bethany returned to Skyhold, the fight against Corypheus was very suddenly over. He decided to take advantage of the fact that most of the Inquisition forces were still in the process of returning from the Wilds, and he reopened the Breach. (Because one hole in the sky wasn’t weird enough for a lifetime, there needed to be two.) So the Inquisitor had gone out, with his most loyal followers, and battled across floating chunks of castle until at last, the ancient magister took his final breaths and succumbed to oblivion.

By the time they marched themselves back to Skyhold, Ruffles had pulled out every possible stop and a mighty celebration was in full swing. The cheering as they entered the lower bailey was almost deafening, and they watched as the Inquisitor mounted the steps to present himself to his beaming council, who bowed their appreciation before Josephine flung herself into his arms.

“Huh. Ruffles and the Inquisitor,” Varric mused. “How did I miss that little development?”

“I’m not sure,” said a voice at his side, and he turned to find Bethany standing there.

“Now, what are you doing out of bed?” he scolded with a smile.

“I can _walk_ , Varric. Besides, I’m feeling much stronger,” she promised. “And Maker knows I’m sick of lying down. If you thought I was going to miss this, well, you’re out of your head.”

“Fair enough. So you knew about those two?” The Inquisitor and the council members were heading into the keep, where the party was just warming up.

“I saw a few hints of it, but I really don’t know how you missed the story of his fighting a duel on her behalf.” She smirked.

He felt his eyes widen. “He did what now?”

“I got to hear all about it when we were in the base camp in the Wilds. A few of the scouts told me,” Bethany explained. “It seems that her parents betrothed her to someone else, so the Inquisitor challenged him to a duel to break the engagement. When she turned up to stop him before he got himself killed, they declared their love and the other man called off the engagement out of respect for it.” She gave a little sigh. “At the risk of sounding like Cassandra, it’s terribly romantic.”

“Not only that, but it gives me ideas that just might sew up that plot hole in the Orlesian thriller. Why didn’t anybody tell me sooner?”

“Well, it happened right before we left, and ever since we got back you’ve been a little preoccupied with playing nursemaid,” she teased him.

“Ah. That could do it. So...” They started for the stairs to join the others. “Now that the big to-do is to-done, have you thought about what you want to do next?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you wanted to fight Corypheus, right? And he’s dead. We won.”

“Thank the Maker for it, too.”

“Right. But I just thought you’d... have plans.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, if you don’t, that’s fine too. I didn’t want to assume - you know what they say happens when you assume.”

“Oh, I see. Well... I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest.” It was funny the way they weren’t looking at each other. “I’ve been busy, you know, resting and recovering.”

“Yeah. I can understand that.”

“But you’re staying, I imagine?”

“I was figuring I would for a bit. Still have some cleanup work to do - and there has to be at least one more hand of Wicked Grace before I get back on a ship. But it’s getting close to time to go home. Kirkwall needs me. Us.”

“Oh, is it ‘us’ now?” Her words were teasing and playful, belying the undercurrent of serious curiosity. They were talking like Orlesians danced, circling each other with hidden purpose.

“Hey, you and I have always made a good team, Sunshine.” He turned his head to glance up at her. “Kirkwall could probably use the might of a combined effort like we bring to the table.”

“You make an excellent point, Varric.”

“Don’t I always? Besides, if I’ve got to be stuck on a boat again for however many days, it’ll be more bearable if there’s some Sunshine in the hold with me.” More seriously, he added, “I think I’ve spent enough time in the dark. I’d like to spend more of my days walking in the light.”

They reached the top step, and paused before crossing the threshold into the main hall. Bethany regarded him thoughtfully. Her lips twitched, almost impish, and she gave a nod. “I think, serah,” she said, “that this is a story we can best tell together.”

 

* * *

 

If these walls could talk, they might speak of a dwarven storyteller and the bright lady who had somehow found herself at the heart of his tale. Which of them was the more surprised was anyone’s guess. But if there were such a thing as _happily ever after_ , he would find a way to write it.


End file.
